


Pick-Up Line

by sambharsobs



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Bad Flirting, Drinking, F/F, Innuendo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:26:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23599816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sambharsobs/pseuds/sambharsobs
Summary: "Have you been listening to Catherine's pick-up lines?" giggles Mercedes. "They're not very effective, you know."Her head feels too heavy for her neck, so she lets it droop. "I've got some of m'own.""Is that so?" says Mercedes, teasingly. "Let's hear it, then."Or, Ingrid gets drunk and tries to pick-up Mercedes. She's terrible at it.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Mercedes von Martritz
Comments: 5
Kudos: 96





	Pick-Up Line

Ingrid isn't sure how drinking is going to make her a better knight.

There's no combat, no training, no strategy involved. Rather, Ingrid is sitting rather stiffly at the wooden table, holding a tankard of some alcohol so potent she can't bring the mug to her lips without wincing at the smell, and wincing at the loud, off-key singing emerging from somewhere behind her.

A heavy hand smacks her right between her shoulderblades, and she nearly falls forward onto the table.

"C'mon Ingrid, lighten up!" Catherine, clutching a tankard, clambers into the seat next to Ingrid, and the Faerghus noble spots Shamir quietly slipping into the seat beside the blonde.

"Ah- Um, Catherine. I'm unsure if this is really the best training for a knight-"

"Don't worry about it," grins Catherine. "This is a way to unwind after a long day, Knight-style."

Shamir scoffs, and Ingrid blinks.

"Hey, it's better than me teaching you my pick-up lines," shrugs Catherine. "See, look-" She turns to Shamir, who raises an eyebrow dangerously.

"Hey, baby," Catherine's voice is suddenly low and thick. "I've seen a lot of bodies on the battlefield, and I wanna see yours, too."

Ingrid cringes, and the sound of Catherine squealing as Shamir twists her ear fills the tavern. She never expected she'd meet someone worse than Sylvain when it came to matters of the heart.

She eyes the tankard warily, and decides it's a better way to unwind than listen to Catherine try to pick up Shamir again.

After all, it's not like she's going to let it get out of hand.

-

She let it get out of hand.

In hindsight, maybe she shouldn't have challenged Catherine to a drinking contest. Her head is spinning, and her limbs are light. Her tongue feels delightfully loose and her mind doesn't hesitate in voicing every thought in her head. Most of which are either inappropriate or riddled with expletives, she realises.

With Shamir's help, who is somehow startlingly sober despite beating Catherine in a drinking contest, they stumble back to Garreg Mach. Giggling and hiccuping, they are dragged to the infirmary.

When Mercedes opens the door and sees them, her eyes widen. Ingrid feels, in a gummy and uncontrollable way, her lips burst into a smile at the sight of the healer.

"Mercie," she sighs happily. Mercedes reaches for her, and Ingrid stumbles into her arms, breathing in the scent of her lavender perfume. "You smell nice," she mumbles into a soft neck.

"...they're drunk," supplies Shamir tiredly. "The usual for this one," she says, jolting Catherine's head off her shoulder.

"Oh, dear," says Mercedes, and pulls her into the infirmary. She's plopped onto a bed, and Shamir lowers Catherine into another. Ingrid can't take her eyes off Mercedes, who is shuffling about the medicine cabinet and pulling out herbs. The moonlight strikes her slender neck at a very flattering angle, and Ingrid is suddenly consumed with the desire to follow in suit with her lips.

It's not like Mercedes' interest in women is a secret. Dorothea had told her, smiling knowingly, about a tea-time conversation the two had had, bonding over their mutual appreciation for muscular women. She might have a good shot for a kiss, Dorothea had teased her. But Ingrid and Mercedes already did a lot of kissing. Mercie would kiss her forehead before battle, and Ingrid would kiss her hand in thanks for their weekly tea parties.

The problem is, she wants to kiss those full lips.

"Ingrid, are you listening to me?"

Full lips that were saying something.

"Wha?"

Mercedes sits next to her, running a hand through her hair. "You need to drink this, else you're going to have a rough time tomorrow," she says, smiling kindly. A glass with something green is pressed into her hands.

"You've got a real pretty mouth," Ingrid says instead.

Mercedes' eyes widen, and Ingrid hears Shamir cough behind her. She's focused on Mercedes' lips though, the way they part when she's surprised. It's cute, and Ingrid tells her because she wants to. She's rewarded with a blush colouring the older woman's cheeks.

"Good one, Ing!" says Catherine.

"We're, uh-" Shamir begins gruffly. There's the sound of shuffling. "We're going to go. Thanks, Mercedes." The mercenary hauls the knight through the door.

"Be careful next time!" chimes Mercedes, watching them leave. She turns to Ingrid, who is still enjoying looking at the woman in front of her. Slim fingers cover the mouth Ingrid's been dreaming of, and a giggle emerges from them. "Oh, what am I going to do with you?"

"Whatever you want," says Ingrid, swallowing against the thickness in her tongue. She grins at Mercedes' flushed smile. Her words feel lighter, and so she continues, "I wanna be another body you look at."

"Have you been listening to Catherine's pick-up lines?" giggles Mercedes, reaching around her head and undoing her braids. Warm fingers are then running through her hair, and the sensation sends prickles all the way down Ingrid's spine. "They're not very effective, you know."

Her head feels too heavy for her neck, so she lets it droop. "I've got some of m'own."

"Is that so?" says Mercedes teasingly. Soft fingers take the cup out of her hands. "Let's hear it, then."

Ingrid clears her throat, which still feels sticky, and, resting her arms on Mercedes' lap, pushes herself up to meet blue eyes.

"I wish I was one of the Four Saints," begins Ingrid, licking her lips, "because I wanna put my key into your hole."

A delighted laugh fills the infirmary, and Ingrid bows her head as she laughs with her. When she looks up, there's still some moonlight falling on Mercedes' cheek, and she looks ethereal, Ingrid thinks. Ingrid knows she has a stupid grin on her face, but she doesn't mind because she's happy.

"Issa good line."

Mercedes puts a finger on her lips, pretending to think. "A bit too crass, don't you think?"

Ingrid blinks, and then frowns, thinking. "How 'bout…uh…"

Seiros, this was hard.

"Um…"

"Um?" supplies Mercedes teasingly. Her smile is sweet, thinks Ingrid through her pounding skull.

"You should start a church because I'd kneel for you every day," she says triumphantly.

Mercedes giggles again, shaking her head. "I think that's blasphemy," she says.

"You make me want to blasphemy," mumbles Ingrid to her lap. "Can I do that?"

"While I'm sure Edelgard would be very happy to hear that," smiles Mercedes, cupping her cheek and tilting her face upwards, "you really are quite drunk. Drink this for me, please?" She holds out the medicine, her gaze soft.

Ingrid wraps her fingers around the cup. "For you, anything, m'lady," she says. She doesn't notice the blush on Mercedes' face, because she's tipped her head back and downed the bitter liquid.

"Tastes like piss," she grumbles.

Mercedes laughs again, and then slender arms are pushing her back onto the bed. She lies down and looks up at soft eyes and light hair.

"You're real pretty, Mercie," she says, and it's true.

"Thank you, my knight. Hush now, sleep."

-

The sun is too bright.

Ingrid hisses out a curse as she tries to shield her eyes. There's a war worse than the one they're currently fighting in her head, and she squints around, realising she's not in her room. The bed is soft, but she pushes herself to sit.

She's in the infirmary.

"Good morning." She hears Mercedes' airy, musical voice before she sees her. The older woman is settling a bottle of water and a cup with something green on the side table, and then lowers herself to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Mercedes," says Ingrid, her voice cracking. "Good morning. What am I doing here?"

There's something teasing and knowing in Mercedes' smile, and Ingrid's stomach - which feels weak - clenches at the sweet sight.

"You don't remember?"

Ingrid shakes her head, sitting up wearily.

A musical giggle blesses her ears. "You went out drinking with Catherine and Shamir, and they brought you here after," she says, her eyes twinkling.

Dread fills her already-ruined stomach. "M-Mercedes," she breathes. "Did I do anything untoward?"

"Well, I didn't think so," she says mysteriously.

"Mercedes," she sighs. "What did I do?"

Another delighted laugh, and Mercedes begins to tell her everything that happened the night before. Ingrid feels her face heat up as the healer speaks, and eventually has to bury her face in her hands out of shame.

"-and then you fell asleep here," finishes Mercedes, her voice smiling.

Ingrid groans into her hands. Scrubbing her face, she looks up. Mercedes seems amused, but Ingrid feels terrible. She places a hand to her chest and bows slightly.

"Mercedes, please accept my apologies for my improper behaviour last night," she begins. "It was not my intention to burden you with the task of taking care of me on top of your current workload, nor was it my intention to...to say…" She trails off, her throat tight with shame.

"That you'd like to put your key into my hole?" finishes Mercedes, smiling.

Ingrid groans and buries her face into her hands again. Her head is throbbing like something was murdered in there last night. Her dignity, perhaps.

"That, and all the other stuff."

"Oh, Ingrid," sighs Mercedes, peeling her hands away from her face and threading her fingers through them. "Don't you worry about that. It was very cute."

"And inappropriate," grumbles Ingrid, enjoying the warmth of their clasped hands. "And now you have to look after me."

"That's never a problem, my knight," says Mercedes sweetly. Ingrid sighs at her lap. Fingers are then grasping her chin, pulling her face up, and oh dear.

Mercedes' eyes shone with something...dangerous.

"If you feel so bad about it, then why don't you try again tonight?"

Her head is hurting too much to keep up with this. "What?"

"Why don't you come back tonight, once we're done with our duties, and try picking me up again?"

"Y-You…" A painful jolt through her skull. "You want me to do that again? It's...it's inappr-"

"I told you, my knight," says Mercedes, smiling serenely. "I didn't mind."

Ingrid gapes at her like a fish, and the healer giggles and slips her hands away from Ingrid. Rising, she turns to the knight and says, "I've got some work to attend to now, so make sure you drink up that medicine and lots of water." Her smile widens. "I'm looking forward to hearing what you have for me in store tonight, Ingrid."

And she's out of the door before Ingrid can process what just happened.

-

She needs help, decides Ingrid.

Once she managed to scrape up some energy (and whatever was left of her dignity), Ingrid had gone down to the library, in hopes that there would be something in there that would help her. Unfortunately, Seteth (why did thinking about the stern man fill her with so much shame?) had disposed of anything that Ingrid could use, and so she found herself helpless.

The only other option, as much as it mortified her, was to ask her friends. Despite Sylvain's insistence that he was Seiros' gift to womankind, Ingrid knew better from first-hand experience of cleaning up his messes, and she would rather deal with a hundred post-Sylvain women than ask for his help.

Which left her with…

"Dorothea," says Ingrid, trying to catch the attention of the songstress, who sat by the docks, chatting with Petra. "Excuse me, I'm sorry to interrupt. I, uh… I need some help."

"What is it, dear Ingrid?" says Dorothea, turning to her with a concerned look on her face. "Oh, my. Ingrid, you look like you were trampled by a carriage."

"If you are having the need for medicine, I shall be going to get Mercedes for you," supplies Petra, equally worried.

"No,  _ no _ ." Mercedes' name was doing things to her stomach, which felt dangerously like spilling. Ingrid sighed, and wondered why she got into this mess. "It's...it's about her, actually."

Dorothea's smile turns wicked, and Ingrid is too tired to stop her before she says, "Is she why you're looking so haggard, Ingrid? Why, I didn't expect it from her. Or you, for that matter."

"No, Dorothea, it's nothing like that. Well, I mean, it's something like that but nothing like what you're thinking. It's- That is to say, we- she-"

"Come here, my Ingrid," says Dorothea, pushing Petra with her hip and making space for Ingrid on the bench. She lowers herself to sit beside the songstress, and then lowers her head into her hands. "C'mon, tell me what happened."

"Be spilling the beans," adds Petra helpfully.

They're her friends. They've fought together in countless battles. More than that though, they're the only ones who can help her right now.

Ingrid groans, and then retells the events of the previous night.

"You told her  _ what _ ?!" shrieks Dorothea, laughing.

Ingrid winces at the sound. For both her sake and her dignity's sake, she says, "Dorothea, please, not so loud…"

Shaking with laughter, Dorothea stage-whispers, "You told her you'd put your key into her hole?"

Ingrid groans. This is a bad idea, and she should leave. She rises to do so, but is pulled back by Dorothea.

"I'm sorry, my Ingrid. It's just...too funny," she says, wiping away a tear.

"Well, as hilarious as it is, she told me to come back and try picking her up again. The library has no books on the matter, and I'm not asking Sylvain. I need your help, Dorothea," says Ingrid, wincing at the plea in her voice.

"Well you've come to the right place," winks Dorothea. "Because I have a lot of experience in picking up men-" She turns to Petra then, and Ingrid knows it's coming but that doesn't mean she's any more ready for it, "-and women," she finishes, her voice low and velvety.

Petra simply smiles in response. Dorothea sighs and turns back to Ingrid, who is trying to suppress a laugh of her own.

"So you need a pick-up line," says Dorothea, suddenly all business.

"Yes."

"A  _ good _ one," adds Petra, smiling kindly.

Ingrid flinches. "Yes."

Dorothea brings a perfectly manicured finger to her lips and taps it, twice. A sly smile crosses her face then, and she says, "How about, 'Are you feeling cold tonight? Because I know some ways to warm you up.'"

Ingrid feels her face heat up at the suggestivity behind the words. She shakes her head, and mumbles, "Too inappropriate."

"Oh, this coming from the Cichol girl?" snaps Dorothea, offended.

As Ingrid glares at Dorothea, Petra pipes up with, "In Brigid, we are having...such lines."

Dorothea's annoyance melts into delight, and she turns to the Princess. "Is that so? Well, the floor is all yours, Petra," she coos.

"The floor is belonging to Garreg Mach," says Petra, confused.

"No, Petra, what she meant was-" Ingrid sighs, pressing two fingers to her brow. Her headache was getting worse. Dorothea explains, and Petra nods happily in understanding. "What was the line?"

Petra says something in her native tongue, and Ingrid hears Dorothea sigh, smitten at the sound of the words.

"Get a hold of yourself," mutters Ingrid.

"Stuff it, Cichol. Literally and otherwise," Dorothea mutters back.

"You are wondering of the meaning?" continues Petra, unaware of their griping. They nod in unison. "Translated, it means as follows. 'If I could be swimming in the ocean in your eyes, I would be diving again and again until I am drowning in you'."

Ingrid feels her heart warming. That's a good line, she thinks, but it's better in Brigid tongue. She wants to tell them this, but Dorothea has taken over the conversation.

"Oh, Petra," she sighs. "I never knew Brigid had such a romantic language."

"Thank you Dorothea. It means much coming from you," says Petra, smiling.

"Great, but-" begins Ingrid, but Dorothea cuts her off.

"And are the people as romantic as the language?" she says, tracing a finger across Petra's shoulderpads. Petra seems to finally get it, her eyes widening, and then narrowing in amusement.

"They are very romantic as well."

"Guys, focus. Mercedes doesn't-"

Ignoring her, Dorothea leans over Petra. "I'd love to find out  _ exactly _ how romantic the Brigid tongue is," she says, the double entendre potent and husky.

"It would be bringing me great pleasure in showing you, Dorothea," shoots back Petra, her grin just as saucy.

Ingrid just gets up and leaves.

-

She glares until Sylvain's laughter ceases.

He raises his arms in surrender, and says, "Sorry, sorry. But it's just...Ingrid, you're somehow worse than me," he says, bursting into laughter again.

Ingrid elbows his side until he's doubled over from pain and not laughter.

"So I need help, and Dorothea-" Ingrid closes her eyes briefly to gather some strength. "-is busy. So you're the only other person who can help me," she barks.

"Well, I must warn you," winks Sylvain, "My pick-up lines are so good, you might just forget Mercedes and fall for me."

Ingrid looks at him.

"Okay, fine," he says, slumping in defeat. "Mercedes isn't a woman easily impressed though. She always brushed off my advances when we were in school-"

"-smart of her-"

"-so we need a killer line," continues Sylvain, pointedly ignoring her. "Hm, let's see. Pick-up lines work better when there's some shared experiences, let me tell you. So what do you and Miss Mercedes have in common?"

Not much, thinks Ingrid, her stomach sinking. They're polar opposites in personality and hobbies. This is a bad idea. She opens her mouth to say so, when Sylvain cuts her off.

"I got it! You're both women with Crests!"

"...so is Annette, and Lysithea, and-"

"Here's the line: 'Mercedes, wanna see which Crest our babies will have?"

-

Once Sylvain limps off, Ingrid finds herself being drawn to the stables. She needs some fresh air, and perhaps tending to her pegasus will help clear her mind a bit.

However, she isn't alone at the stables. Ferdinand is there too, stroking a horse and talking Marianne's ear off. The blue-haired girl looks like she wants to melt into the floor, but Ferdinand doesn't notice.

He spots her as she stomps towards the stables, and says, "Ah, Ingrid! My fellow admirer of equestrian matters! Come, I was just telling Marianne here about the benefits of- oh, dear. Ingrid, are you alright?"

Ingrid sighs and rubs her eyes, which she knows are framed with bags.

"I'm fine, Ferdinand."

"If you are feeling unwell, you should go to the infirmary." Ingrid winces internally. "As one of our best fighters, it would do us a great loss if you are not in top form."

Marianne nods next to him, her brows scrunched in worry.

Maybe Ingrid still has some alcohol left in her system, but it doesn't stop the thought. They're her friends too, right?

"I'll be fine. But...you can help me, actually."

Ferdinand is a nobleman, and Marianne is elegant in many ways. Maybe they can help her, or maybe she's going mad with desperation.

"Just say the word," says Ferdinand, puffing out his chest. "I shall help, as is my duty to a fellow noble!"

"Right." Ingrid rubs her pounding head. Why isn't it getting any better? "Do...do you know any pick-up lines?"

There's a silence, and Ingrid understands exactly how Marianne was feeling a few minutes ago.

"Pick-up lines?" muses Ferdinand. "Well...ah!" His face brightens, and he looks at the two women before him, both wondering how they can escape into a hole somewhere.

"There was one that a stable hand had told me, long ago. It went like this, 'I wish you were a horse, so that I may ride you all day'."

Ingrid chokes, and Marianne makes a soft sound of extreme discomfort.

"Isn't that a wonderful sentiment?" continues Ferdinand, oblivious. "Going on a ride with someone until the sunset...quite romantic, no?"

"Ferdinand, no, that's not what-" Ingrid swallows, feeling her head throb and stomach grumble. "You know what? I should go."

"M-Me too," chirps Marianne, and the two women scramble towards the classrooms, leaving behind a very confused noble.

As they march away, Ingrid turns to Marianne, feeling her stomach do very unpleasant things. "S-So, uh, do you…?"

"I-I-I really should go!" squeaks the timid woman, and bolts off.

-

She's happy to see Ashe in the kitchens, because her stomach hurts and she needs a friend right now.

The archer whips up a soup that's delicate on the stomach but hearty enough to fill her, and she perches on a stool beside a counter and scarfs down the boiling liquid.

Between swallows, she explains the whole situation to her friend, who - to his credit - doesn't laugh or tease her. His neck turns pink at some parts, and he coughs awkwardly here and there, which he tries to hide with the sound of the water as he cleans the dishes, but he listens nevertheless.

"-and that's the situation, and I don't have a line yet, and it's nearing the evening," finishes Ingrid sadly.

"Well, it's not too bad, is it?" says Ashe, taking her bowl and putting it into the sink. "I mean, she's interested, right?"

"Yes, but…"

"Don't worry, Ingrid. Your heart is in the right place, and I'm sure Mercedes will be happy no matter what happens," Ashe says softly.

That's true, she thinks. But a stubborn part of her still wants to impress Mercedes.

"Thank you, Ashe. I'll keep that in mind," she sighs.

The archer smiles at her again, gently, and turns back to the sink.

"Do you know any lines I could use?" Worth a shot, right? It's not like Ashe has something grossly inappropriate like Sylvain or Dorothea or even Ferdinand, although he doesn't know it.

She doesn't expect Ashe's ears, neck and face to turn bright red, and his grip on the bowl slips.

"W-Well...that's…"

"If you don't want to share, I understand. But also, I've just told you about one of the poorest decisions of my life," she says, laughing gently.

Ashe grins at her, the blush still high on his cheeks. "W-Well, one line I did hear - that is, told to a separate person, not to me, I wasn't involved in this process at all, n-not even in the slightest bit - was, um…"

Ingrid looks at the innocent boy before her, wondering how bad this was going to be.

"'There are all these beautiful flowers in the greenhouse, but I want to pluck you'," he mumbles.

She's rethinking the innocent part now.

"I can't do this with you," she says, getting up.

"Th-Thank you," says Ashe, relieved.

"Um...thanks for all your help, Ashe."

"N-No problem. It's not much help. A-And, if I may say, I have faith in you, Ingrid. You've got this," he finishes, with an encouraging smile.

"Yeah," she nods, wishing she had some of his optimism.

-

Ingrid changes into one of her nicer tunics, scrubs her face clean of the hangover, and even gets Dorothea to apply some make-up under her eyes once she was done…learning the languages of Brigid.

She's nervously pacing the infirmary now, because Mercedes should be coming in after work anytime, and she's got nothing.

When the doors open, Ingrid swallows hard and looks up. Mercedes walks in, and smiles at her gently.

"Good evening, Mercedes," she says.

"Good evening, Ingrid," chimes Mercedes, drifting to the cupboard and filing away her medicine. It feels like deja vu, the way the even glow touches her cheeks, and Ingrid has to pretend to clear her throat.

Her eyes are twinkling, however, when she throws a look over her shoulder. "How was your day? People have been saying you've been asking...some  _ interesting _ questions."

"It's, uh. It's been eventful," mutters Ingrid. Mercedes laughs, and moves towards her. Her fingers lace through hers again, and Ingrid marvels at how soft they are, amidst all the violence around them.

"You look nervous," she says softly.

"I, uh, am nervous."

"Is it because of my request?"

Ingrid nods, looking at her toes. She's so far out of her comfort zone, and the fact that it's with someone so special to her is making things worse.

"Oh, my knight," whispers Mercedes. "If you don't want to, you don't have to. It's just a silly request."

"But that's not the point," mumbles Ingrid, grasping the hands in her tighter. "Mercedes, you…you ask for so little. So when you do, I want to make sure it's the best I can give you."

There's a soft chuckle, and the woman before her says, "But I don't want for you to feel like this in the process."

Ingrid shakes her head. That's not the point. Ingrid will keep trying, despite the nerves and sore head, to give Mercedes whatever she wants.

She's worth that, and so much more.

When Ingrid tugs her hands free, she hears a questioning murmur from Mercedes. It's quickly replaced with a soft exclamation when she drops to her knees, one arm around her back, one arm on her heart.

"Ingrid, what…"

"Mercedes, I know that words are not my forte," she begins, bowing her head. "I cannot write poetry nor can I compose speeches. My lance is strong, my flying is sound, and my will is firm. Those are my strengths, and they are not nearly enough for someone like you.

"I don't know the sweet words you asked me for. My mouth is more used to sounding out orders. But I must tell you that around you, I...I feel calm. Calmer than I would riding my pegasus on a warm, clear day. Yet at the same time, you send my mind into a frenzy madder than the chaos on a battlefield. You affect me in ways I cannot get enough of.

"And it is a dishonourable thing to think, even less to say, but I...I want you, if you will have me. If you will let me, I would like to be with you tonight, and if it pleases you, every night after that."

She's suddenly out of words, so she clamps her mouth shut and keeps her head down.

There's an exhale, and a shaky whisper of, "O-Oh, dear."

Ingrid looks up, and sees bright cheeks and lips parted in surprise. Something hopeful and bright begins to bloom in Ingrid's chest, and she tries to keep it at bay.

"My, Ingrid. When I asked for a pick-up line, I didn't expect...this."

There's a lurch of fear at that, and all she can say from her place on the floor is, "Is it not okay?"

Mercedes giggles, and motions for her to rise. Ingrid does, and then Mercedes is kissing her, soft and sweet and gentle and divine and aching.

"It's perfect," she sighs against her lips, the warm breath tickling her face.

Ingrid doesn't have any more words or lines to say, so she reaches out for another kiss, and it's all so simple, suddenly.

They need to part because Ingrid is smiling so much it hurts, and her lips are all awkward and janky and aren't aligning with Mercedes' soft, full mouth.

She huffs a laugh and lets her head fall onto Mercedes' shoulder, breathing in lavender and feeling her heart thud wildly in joy. Mercedes giggles too, and soon they're laughing, holding each other in a moonlit infirmary.

She looks at the woman in her arms adoringly. "I'm glad you liked it," she whispers.

"I loved it," says Mercedes, running a thumb across her cheek. "But it's still not as good as the Cichol one, though."

"Oh? You liked that?" Mercedes nods at that, giggling. "But you said it was too crass!"

"Yes, but it was really very good. The only problem with it though-" And Mercedes is lowering her lips to her ear, her breath hot and tingling, "-is that _I'm_ going to be the one putting my key into your hole."

And Ingrid does agree with her. That's a damn good pick-up line.

**Author's Note:**

> no a support????? what???????
> 
> If you'd like, you can follow me on Twitter @sadsambharsobs. I tweet about women, videogames, and politics.


End file.
